


the only constant

by risquetendencies



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety Feels, Canon compliant-ish, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, I Will Go Down With This Ship, In Which Kenma Looks After Kuroo And Realizes Some Things, M/M, supportive parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26577166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risquetendencies/pseuds/risquetendencies
Summary: “Your sun doesn’t have to rise and set with me, you know,” Kuroo said.But more and more, Kenma felt like it did.--Nekoma loses to Karasuno in their fated matchup. It isn't the loss that devastates Kuroo, but an offhand comment from Kenma's parents that makes him question their entire decade together as friends.
Relationships: Kozume Kenma & Kuroo Tetsurou, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 24
Kudos: 347





	the only constant

Being exhilarated was exhausting.

In every stage of life so far, he’d preferred preserving energy. Limiting his hobbies, avoiding extra volleyball practice, staying in bed on free days. Feeling sedate was a normal state of being for him. It was comfortable, and didn’t agitate any of his anxieties. He hardly knew what it was like to feel desperate, heartbroken, overcome by excitement, or even this weird mix of all three that he felt now.

Kenma sighed and lifted a hand to pull a few bleached strands away from his face.

In his face was where he liked his hair, most of the time, but it was matted down with sweat, stinging his eyes. If he’d had one on him, he would have used a clip to pin it to the side. Comfort took precedence over routine right now. With the storm of emotions brewing within him, he had to tackle what he could. The emotions would take longer. Keeping sweat out of his eyes was easier.

Golden eyes flicked over the changing room, mapping the half-closed lockers, strewn shirts on the floor, and the fiery scent of topical lidocaine with added menthol. He was the only one left inside. It was quieter now that they had lost.

 _Game over_.

Today’s match had been too long to be the sudden-death match that he’d asked Shouyou for, but it had felt just like one. From the beginning serve to the last set’s end, each play had carried a weight, a promise that if one of them messed up, it would all be over. During the match, he’d found a drive within him that he hadn’t known he possessed. He had exerted himself. He had cared, too much. He hadn’t given up. Not just for his friends, his team, but for himself.

That was new. A feeling he wasn’t yet used to.

A hand dropped onto his shoulder.

“Hey.”

Kenma tilted his head.

Behind him, Kuroo stood, already changed out of his game uniform into their school tracksuit. He looked fresh, showered, presentable, but there was a look in his eyes that seemed less put together. Like maybe he too was wading through a sea of emotions without being able to decide what he felt most in the moment.

That seemed likely. Despite their differences in personality, their brains operated in similar ways when it came to problems featuring their emotions. Not the same, but Kenma knew Kuroo was far from sure how to act right now. Losses were all different, but losing this so-called fated battle was something Kuroo wouldn’t be able to process straightaway.

“Your parents are here,” Kuroo said. “Wanna come talk to them? If not, I can tell them you’ll see them at home later."

Kenma grimaced. He cupped a hand over his face for a few tense moments, then his expression morphed into a glare as he reinstated eye contact with Kuroo.

“You told them we’d be playing,” he accused.

Kuroo was supposed to know that was a bad idea. Even if he hadn’t told him not to. Kuroo was supposed to read between the lines and expect that he wouldn’t be a fan of cluing in his parents to their match schedule. It was embarrassing enough having total strangers watching them play.

“I know, I know,” Kuroo said sheepishly. To his credit, he actually sounded apologetic. “I shouldn’t have, but it’s a big game, Kenma. They were excited to come watch you.”

“And you.” He was still annoyed, but the remorse in Kuroo’s tone was mollifying to a degree.

If he’d thought about it beforehand, he could have predicted Kuroo pulling this stunt. Kuroo – no, both of them for once – had been hyped up for this game. If there was ever one for his parents to spectate, it was this game. Kenma knew they would have been thrilled to be invited. He could imagine his mom glowing with pride, thanking Kuroo for being such a thoughtful friend to make sure Kenma got all the attention he deserved. Or some similar, doting speech. His dad had probably gone straight upstairs to check the tournament brackets and research their opponent.

Kenma knew he had parents who cared about him deeply. It was embarrassing at times, being the center of their world, but he’d never hated it. He knew not everyone had a close relationship with their family, so he tried not to take it for granted. Much.

His parents liked Kuroo, too. With them being friends so long, and Kuroo being over at their house so much as a kid, while his family worked, they had more or less adopted him. He was the second child they’d never been able to have.

Breaking their linked gazes, Kuroo shifted on his feet, one hand tapping away where it was perched on his hip.

“Eh, it’s not like I’m their son. They’re here for you!”

Kuroo was always hesitant to accept that he was just as important as someone else, no matter the situation. He was weird in that way. Sometimes Kuroo acted loud and put on airs, bragging about his kind nature, his unstoppable blocks, or whatever else. But when anyone honestly tried to praise him, he pulled away, acting uncomfortable and overly modest. Like he didn’t buy that he could deserve praise.

Kenma frowned.

That quirk had always bothered him about Kuroo, but he’d never figured out how to break it.

“So, do you want to?” Kuroo prompted. Kenma knew he was trying to deflect attention off of himself.

Kenma’s frown deepened.

He didn’t like not knowing the answer to something. Questions like this, ones that mattered, nagged at his brain, and made it hard to calm down once he started thinking about them. Given the emotional overload he felt after losing to Shouyou, he wasn’t inclined to burn more energy by reopening a decade-long mystery. He also wasn’t inclined to push Kuroo when he was feeling just as unsteady as him.

“Let’s just go now,” Kenma sighed.

The longer he let his parents stew on their excitement, the worse it was going to be to have it regurgitated at him later. As for his other current concern, he’d have to table it. Right now, he could only tackle things he could fix quickly.

Kuroo’s issue wasn’t one of those.

**. . . . .**

“Kenma!”

Kenma flinched as the volume of his mom’s voice leapt over the crowds to reach him. For a fleeting second, he considered making a left turn and sneaking out a side door of the arena. But his escape plan was cut short. Kuroo gripped him by the hood of his sweatshirt and marched them both through the mass of people in the hall towards his parents.

“And Tetsu-kun, hi!”

His mom beamed at Kuroo before bouncing forward to engulf Kenma in her arms. As she hugged him, he inhaled the gentle, floral scent of her perfume and soothed slightly at the warmth she radiated. It could be nice, sometimes, when he felt okay with being doted on.

Her fingernails brushed Kenma’s scalp as she patted his hair, but she soon retreated, settling her hands on his shoulders instead. They stood nearly eye to eye. Kenma knew he looked like a glorified copy and paste of her features on a taller, slightly plainer frame. Mom smiled as if to counteract the tumultuous feelings he was experiencing. Like an open book, she’d read him in moments. She always had a smile for him, even in the times Kenma forgot what positivity felt like, but this one hit hard. He felt half of the gloom that he was carrying evaporate into calm.

Things might be okay sooner than expected.

Dad walked closer with a reserved look etched on his lips.

“That was a close one,” he said, quietly.

Kenma nodded his head.

“But you did so well, Kenma. Dad and I were watching, and we were shocked by how you played,” Mom sang, releasing him to take a step back.

“Not surprised,” Dad added, looking a bit bashful. “We know you can, it’s just usually-”

“Usually Kenma likes to take it super easy,” Kuroo chimed in, joining their huddle.

Kenma shot him a wintry look. Kuroo wasn’t wrong, exactly. But he sounded far too chipper about that fact for his tastes.

“Yes! That’s why we were surprised. He seemed really engaged this time!”

Ignoring the cold front looming on his left side, Kuroo grinned.

“That’s because he really wanted to beat Karasuno. They’re our fated rivals. Even Kenma, the king of apathy, might have felt a little moved if we won.” Then, bottom lip twitching, Kuroo’s expression mellowed out. “But we didn’t, so…” he trailed off.

Kenma stared at the floor, golden eyes counting the scrapes on the tiles from years of shoes walking over them.

It was definitely going to take time to process losing. There would be other chances; Shouyou and he had more time left in high school, but this game had felt like the one he absolutely had to win. Not winning was frustrating in a way that was new for him. He didn’t know how to deal with it.

“You were playing against your new friend today, right? The younger boy with orange hair.”

Kenma looked up.

“Shouyou,” he offered.

“That’s the one!” Mom brightened. “I was surprised about that too, when Tetsu-kun mentioned you had made friends with someone from another school. That’s so unlike you, Kenma.”

Kenma glowered at his best friend. But he wasn’t paying attention, so it took Kuroo a moment to sense the hostility being directed at him. When he noted it, he gave a smile that said he had no plans of amending his ways.

“You like to gossip too much, Kuro,” Kenma muttered. Turning to his parents’ side of the huddle, he continued, “And you two abuse it.”

His mother’s smile didn’t waver.

“We know better than to ask our own son to tell us things,” she answered beatifically. “That’s where Tetsu-kun comes in handy.”

“This Shouyou seems to have really brought you out of your shell, huh?” Dad commented.

Kenma’s brow wrinkled.

“By that I mean, you’ve played volleyball for what, a decade? But it seems like you’re getting fired up only now.”

Mom nodded. “I’ve never seen you look like you’re having so much fun running around. Shouyou must be a special friend.”

A blush dotted his cheeks as Kenma avoided his parents’ expectant gazes. How was he supposed to respond? It wasn’t a no, but the topic was more complicated than a yes or no.

Shouyou was a friend, and a rival. Someone he felt drawn to, and motivated by. Kenma couldn’t deny that. But all their glowing words made him feel strange. It was true that he’d never been as moved to play volleyball until he’d faced off with Shouyou, but it wasn’t like he’d never enjoyed playing. There had been moments, even if the overarching opinion he’d carried about the sport until recently was that it was tiresome.

If he had completely disliked volleyball, he would have quit the club. But for one reason or another, he had kept playing. Now he just had more reasons.

Kenma’s eyes drifted toward Kuroo standing next to him, as if the answer to what he should say would present itself. But when he did, he noted Kuroo zoning out again, staring at something off in the distance. His inattention looked strangely forced, and his lips formed a flat line on his face that Kenma mistrusted. All the mischief and fondness from minutes earlier was gone.

What was Kuroo bothered by?

It didn’t seem like he was thinking about their loss right now, but what else could be making him so detached? He looked like he was trying to appear as blank as he could.

Kenma frowned, and he felt the first gnaw of his brain turning over the problem over in his head. Just what he hadn’t wanted to get into tonight. But he probably couldn’t help it. They were friends, and it was weird when Kuroo went through a slump these days. When they were younger, it was more common, but not now. So, when it happened, he couldn’t help but analyze Kuroo.

He’d been doing that since he was seven years old. It was an ingrained habit at this point.

“I guess,” Kenma said, unable to divert enough brainpower to elaborate further.

His parents smiled at the lame answer as if anticipating it.

“Well, I hope you two keep on being friends. I think he’s good for you, Kenma,” Mom pressed. She looped her arm around Dad’s, shifting closer to share a look with him.

“Don’t you think, honey?”

Dad nodded.

“That’s all we could ask for, that you’re happy. If this Shouyou helps you enjoy things more, then I’m glad you made a new friend.”

Kenma’s eyes wandered again. Kuroo was checking his phone, tapping at icons with one hand.

“I know you might be feeling a little down because you lost, but I cooked your favorites!” Mom said. “Are you ready to go home?”

Kenma glanced at his parents. He didn’t know what to say. His mind was preoccupied with Kuroo, and he didn’t feel especially hungry. Maybe once the adrenaline wore off, he’d eat something to keep his stomach at bay. But going home was a decent option. There were too many people at the arena, and he didn’t feel like he would solve anything with Kuroo until they were both on more familiar ground.

He settled for nodding.

“Great! Tetsu-kun, do you want a ride, or do you have more captain duties? I can leave some food to the side for you if you don’t want to eat with us now.”

Beside him, Kuroo’s head jerked up, as if he had just realized Kenma’s mother was talking about both of them. He stowed his phone in a pocket, and rearranged his features into a false set that called to Kenma’s mind any time Kuroo shook hands with an opposing team’s captain.

“I’m free, but I was thinking of spending some time at my house. There should be something I can make for dinner,” Kuroo answered, too upbeat.

And to them, it was believable.

“Alright, but if you want to come over later, our door is open,” Mom emphasized.

She seemed accepting of the idea that he wanted to wallow by himself. His parents didn’t often worry about Kuroo in recent years. Once Kuroo had stopped being so introverted during their childhood, it was as if a switch had flipped. They had begun to view him as someone who never needed outside intervention.

They were wrong, Kenma thought. Kuroo was still the same person at heart, even if a lot about him had evolved. And in his opinion, Kuroo functioned worse alone when he was upset than if he had someone there with him.

Kenma’s stomach rolled over with unease, but he couldn’t quite open his mouth to protest the state of affairs.

He wasn’t sure if he needed to. Or if Kuroo would appreciate it. But in his gut, he knew something was wrong.

**. . . . .**

Kenma stabbed at a piece of cabbage, bringing it to his lips and consuming it. With every bite he took from the mixed rice bowl, he felt more unsettled. Eventually, the food weighed in his stomach like a brick, and he gave up having more. He hadn’t wanted to eat anything at all, but he had because he had hoped focusing on dinner would distract him somehow. Now he felt sick.

He set his utensils down and put a hand on his abdomen, willing it to settle.

“You’re not picking out the greens,” Dad said, peering over his glasses at Kenma in surprise.

His mom laughed from across the small, pine table.

“If Tetsu-kun was here, he would faint from shock. Our Kenma eating vegetables!”

But Kuroo wasn’t eating dinner with them. So, he didn’t get to be shocked that for once in their lives, he hadn’t had to nitpick Kenma to eat healthfully. He didn’t get to have an opinion when he’d chosen to isolate himself.

Kenma’s meal churned deep within his stomach, pushing the taste of bile higher into his throat. He frowned and clutched at the area as if pressure would make the nausea subside. Rationally, he knew it wasn’t the food itself. He was worried, and when he was anxious, it was worth avoiding food because it only heightened the other negative side effects he endured.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

Kenma let go of any pretense. He shook his head. Not okay.

“Is it the game, or is it Tetsu-kun?” Mom asked, her voice patient and far too aware.

What?

His eyes widened, and his stomach tightened, knotting into a single, writhing ball of stress. Kenma’s gaze lowered, shifting away from the table, or either of his parents watching him.

He felt exposed. Was something showing on his face to clue them in, or was it intuition on their part? But then, he wasn’t doing the best job of making it seem like everything was normal. He had just hoped that given the big loss tonight that their attention would be drawn to that as an explanation for any weird reactions he had. That should have been a good enough excuse to cover it.

“Do you want your medicine, Kenma?” Dad asked, sounding awkward. He always claimed he didn’t know how to handle things when it came to Kenma’s anxiety, but trying was better than some fathers.

Kenma didn’t know if he wanted a pill. It wasn’t going to solve anything by virtue of taking it, but it might clear his head so he could think.

He nodded.

“Be right back.”

A chair creaked as his father exited the dining room, and a second followed suit. Seconds later, Kenma felt his mother hovering nearby. Her hand was outstretched, but not quite touching him. He shifted his attention onto her, matching their equally golden stares. Sometimes he felt like he was looking at himself in a mirror, but she was better-looking with the same features than he’d ever be.

“Whatever it is, we can help. Do you want to talk about it?”

Kenma debated the question.

Not talking about things wasn’t serving him well so far, so logic dictated trying the opposite of what he was doing was the wise solution. If she already had a hunch that his unease revolved around Kuroo, then she was equipped to give him a decent perspective on how he should handle it. Even if she and Dad missed things about Kuroo sometimes, they had known him for as long as Kenma had. There was probably some insight they had that he wasn’t capable of seeing on his own.

“I guess,” he whispered.

“Okay. Then we’ll talk.” Mom carded a hand through his hair in soft, sweeping waves. “Talking helps.”

He allowed the contact, inwardly agreeing. Sometimes it did.

Not long after, his father returned with a pill and a glass of water. Kenma took both and downed them quickly, willing the medicine to take effect sooner than average. Now that he was resolved to tackle whatever this situation was, he wanted to do it right away.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Reprising his seat to Kenma’s left, his father settled in and looked thoughtful.

“Why don’t you tell us what you thought when you started feeling this way?” he suggested.

It was probably the right place to begin, Kenma thought. It’s what he would have suggested to anyone in his position, because tracing things back made sense. Dad and he were often on the same wavelength when it came to problem-solving. Logic mixed with intuition.

Kenma studied his memory, combing through moments like consecutive frames on a camera roll. It wasn’t until after they’d lost to Shouyou that he’d felt remotely wrong. Even then, how he’d felt at losing wasn’t the same wrong that he was experiencing now. A wrong that was bone deep and weirdly ominous, like if he didn’t fix it, part of him would shatter. What part, Kenma didn’t know.

There was watching Kuroo, after they lost. He was disappointed in many of the same ways, but that wasn’t the correct answer, either. In that instance, disappointment had been a temporary feeling, something that they knew they’d get over with time. A loss was just another chance to start again, even if it would be harder to pull off with graduation looming and them about to be on different teams. Kenma didn’t believe that would prevent Kuroo from dragging him to play with him sometimes, in their free time. He wasn’t going to university somewhere far away. They could win again, together.

Then there was Kuroo acting strange once he had mentioned his parents were there to support both of them. Something about that part felt right to Kenma. It probably wasn’t the whole issue, but it stood out. He tucked the thought away and continued mulling the night over.

When he reached their conversation in the arena hall, the sudden spike in unease that bubbled inside him tipped Kenma off that he’d struck oil. He turned over the things that were said.

His parents had chattered on about how motivated he had been during the game, and how they had been surprised to see that. They had remarked how it was a recent development. And that probably Shouyou was the reason for him changing.

Kenma closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, holding onto the breath for a few seconds before blowing it out.

With the shift in oxygen, his brain fog thinned out and his mind started working better. Leaning forward in his chair, Kenma felt the unknown part of him that was endangered ache. The pain ricocheted, raw inside him as he pushed it out of notice.

That was the answer, he knew it. Something his parents had said then had turned the flames higher on Kuroo’s insecurities. It had caught him at a bad time, where he already felt dejected from losing his final, critical high school match, and when he felt unsure of where he stood in other ways. Probably, Kuroo had doubted that it was okay for him to stand there and talk with them at all, like part of the family. Even if it was obvious to everyone else that he belonged there.

He opened his eyes.

“I’m worried about Kuro. He’s acting weird,” Kenma admitted in a gravelly tone.

His parents blinked in unison.

“Is he?” His mom asked. “You know him best.”

Kenma frowned.

“Then why did you bring him up?”

Dad shifted in his chair.

“Ever since you two kids met, there haven’t been many things that bother you as much as when the issue has to do with Tetsurou,” he said. “You both are that way. Always looking out for one another.”

Something tugged in Kenma’s chest, and he averted his gaze.

He knew that was true. But he didn’t know if he wanted to admit it.

“Kuro probably believes you don’t think he’s done much for me. As a friend,” Kenma said, the truth unwinding as soon as he could voice it. “He never takes credit, and he won’t listen to anyone giving him some.”

Mom touched a hand to her mouth.

“That’s silly. Tetsu-kun is such a sweet boy. I’ve never thought he wasn’t a good friend for you, Kenma.”

“I know you didn’t. But Kuro doesn’t. And then you said all those things about Shouyou.”

His mother frowned, fingers lowering down to her side. She seemed contemplative.

“I knew he was a good friend for you when he showed me he understood how you feel.”

Kenma looked at his father.

“I asked him to bring you to some other game the kids around here were playing. Soccer, maybe. He told me that if he thought you wanted to, he would. But that he knew you didn’t like to go out sometimes, or try certain things. It was pretty mature, for an eight-year-old.”

Listening, Kenma’s pulse accelerated, and he felt a gut punch of remembrance. Sensation flooded back, and he could feel the same stiffness in his spine he had felt as he’d paused on the stairs, eavesdropping. The same wonder that somehow, another person saw him for who he was and wasn’t deterred. A fledgling seed of confidence that he was someone worth being friends with.

“I heard it.”

He swallowed hard, and tried to will his heart back under control.

How could he have forgotten? In the earlier days of their friendship, that conversation was one of the main reasons he’d become comfortable having Kuroo around constantly.

Kenma had never disliked having him there, but he’d wondered secretly if Kuroo was maybe enduring because there wasn’t anyone else their age who lived close. If he might rather be friends with someone more athletic, or more talkative. Even as a shy kid, Kuroo had liked to talk his ear off when there was a topic that interested him. Kenma knew his one-line responses could easily be construed as boredom or annoyance.

Ten years later, not much had changed in that regard. Occasionally, Kuroo could provoke him into two or three-line replies. Sometimes they even had regular length conversations. Kenma hadn’t feared that he wasn’t giving enough on his end for a long time.

But now, he wondered. If he was more effusive, would it have made a difference in times like tonight when Kuroo felt unimportant? Was it his fault that Kuroo felt that way?

No. Kenma shook his head.

It wasn’t his fault, but maybe it wouldn’t have hurt to make Kuroo more aware that he mattered to him. To shut down his notions of inadequacy with an iron fist until they were impossible to dwell upon. What he could have done earlier tonight, if anything, was not let Kuroo go home alone when he felt that way.

“I-” Kenma began, only half forming a plan in his mind.

Beside him, his mother smiled.

“I think he’d be glad to hear what you have to say,” she encouraged. Across from them, his father nodded in agreement.

 _Better late than never_. Kenma had never loved that phrase, but it applied well now. He just hoped it was true when he got to see Kuroo, and there was still some chance to pry him from the hole he had dug himself into emotionally.

“I’m going next door.”

**. . . . .**

Kenma stared at the front door.

Behind the window, there was only dim lighting visible. The house was deserted. He knew that both of Kuroo’s grandparents were on vacation, and his dad was working. From that fact alone, knocking was unnecessary. There was also the possibility of Kuroo pretending he hadn’t heard it, if he was dead set on isolating himself from the rest of the world. Kenma wouldn’t put it past him.

Wrinkling his nose, he debated.

If their situations had been reversed, Kuroo wouldn’t have knocked. He never did, routinely bursting into Kenma’s bedroom whenever he felt like it. Or that’s how it seemed sometimes. If he had believed Kenma was upset, and there was any chance he could help, no door would have stopped him from coming in.

Mind made up, Kenma opened the door and slid into the foyer. He moved through the main hall from memory and to the back of the house where Kuroo’s bedroom was. As he walked, he tried not to think about anything else.

He knew what he wanted to say, more or less. But it would also depend on how bad Kuroo’s condition was.

Kenma’s stomach flipped over. Briefly, he paused outside Kuroo’s bedroom, wondering if it would make any difference. If he would be able to get the words out, or if he’d clam up and lose his chance. It was rare that Kuroo’s presence intimidated him like talking to other people did, but he wouldn’t rule out anything right now. He also knew that he had to take the risk.

Everything in his gut was telling him to act. That this was important. And his mind agreed.

Without hesitating, Kenma opened the final door between them and peered inside.

He froze, observing a Kuroo-shaped lump stretched out on the bed, face pressed into the pillows. The lump was unmoving, and Kuroo’s dark t-shirt rode up in the back, revealing a strip of tanned skin at the base of his spine. The room was unlit like the rest of the house.

Had he fallen asleep?

If so, then his nap was about to be cut short, Kenma decided. His hand moved toward the light switch on the wall.

But then there was movement on the bed. Kuroo’s head emerged from the pillows, and he glanced over his shoulder half-heartedly. And then he froze also. In the split second of inactivity, Kenma thought his eyes looked swollen compared to their usual appearance.

Kuroo scrambled to sit up, ruffling sheets and blankets as he went.

“Kenma?” he called questioningly. Then, quicker, added, “Did you need something? You could have texted me.”

From where he stood, Kenma bit his lip in apprehension. The concern he displayed was genuine, but Kuroo was still trying to act like he was fine. Anyone who had half a brain and knew him could see that he wasn’t.

Kenma shook his head. “I walked to talk to you.”

Steeling his nerves, he moved deeper into the room, stopping just short of Kuroo and the bed. Even now, at the moment of truth, Kenma wondered if he would be able to say everything. He could feel a quiver in his legs like he wanted to bolt, so he remained standing in case that was what he ended up doing. Why he needed that exit route, he didn’t know.

It shouldn’t be hard to say that they were friends, and that Kuroo mattered to him. That Kuroo had done just as much, if not more for him in their life than the other way around. That he wanted Kuroo to be around, whether it was them together or grouped in with his parents. That Kuroo was important.

Nothing about that was overwhelming because it was all true. But Kenma’s legs felt unsteady, like after a practice with too many diving receive drills.

“Huh, how unlike you,” Kuroo murmured, peering at him warily.

His eyes were definitely swollen, Kenma noted, and rimmed with red. As if noticing him watching, Kuroo swept a self-conscious hand through his hair, smoothing down his bangs to cover one half of his face. Then he settled his legs into a crossed position and waited for Kenma to continue.

Kenma wondered if the silence now was the same silence as when Kuroo led a conversation with him. It probably wasn’t. Kuroo never seemed to mind the lapses in their everyday dialogue. In all likelihood, he was the only one who worried about it.

More importantly-

“Are you okay, Kuro?”

Kuroo leaned forward, tapping a finger on the comforter below.

“I don’t really know,” he said. The rawness in his voice was grating, sending pinpricks of anxiety searing through Kenma’s bloodstream. “ _Will_ I be okay? Yeah, totally. But in this particular moment in the whole of my existence? Debatable.”

Kenma’s chest tightened, air stoppering in his lungs for a moment before he remembered to breathe. Though he had come here, certain of what he needed to say, it didn’t feel easy when Kuroo was in a headspace like that. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to tell him that it was okay when Kuroo was convinced it wasn’t? Was it fine to do that in the first place?

His heart ached, and Kenma’s eyes drifted to the floor.

It bothered him to see Kuroo melt down like this. Kuroo was supposed to be dependable. He didn’t have to be. Kuroo was only human, but he so often, incredibly, was dependable. The decade since they’d met had molded Kuroo into someone Kenma could scarcely imagine thinking of as hesitant, or weak-hearted. The fact that no one else ever guessed that about Kuroo’s personality was testament to the amount of growth he’d achieved.

He was probably the only person left, other than his parents, who knew how Kuroo had started out.

When they were younger, Kuroo’s behavior had bothered him too. To Kenma, he had been this kid holding in an intense amount of potential, too scared to show his true self to the world for fear of rejection. Kuroo’s own distant family situation had likely only influenced that fear.

“I know you want to be alone,” Kenma said. “But you need to understand something.”

He heard more rustling, and lifted his eyes to spot Kuroo fidgeting in his perch on the bed. Kuroo looked away when he noticed Kenma observing him. He was surprised at this point, with how antsy Kuroo seemed, that he didn’t tell him to leave.

“Earlier, when she was talking about stuff, Mom didn’t mean that Shouyou is the only friend I’ve had that’s-” Kenma struggled with word choice, and his own rising pulse. “That’s meant anything.”

“If that’s what you’re worried about, don’t, Kenma. I’m fine.” Kuroo’s words were clipped, and unconvincingly neutral in their delivery.

Frustration and desperation bubbled up within him, and Kenma bit his tongue. He rarely yelled, but he almost felt like doing so if he wasn’t also equally afraid of what would come out. If he let himself go now, he’d tell Kuroo a lot of things. Like that Kuroo was an idiot, annoyingly stubborn, and patronizing, but somehow, he loved him anyway.

Kenma’s eyes widened. He froze, and the quiver in his legs intensified. Realization rushed in, sweeping his breath away for the second time.

He loved him.

“Your sun doesn’t have to rise and set with me, you know,” Kuroo said.

But more and more, Kenma felt like it did.

He understood the moral Kuroo was trying to preach, but it didn't resonate one-hundred percent. Of course he knew it was okay to have other friendships, that different people could fill different voids for him. But what Kuroo didn't seem to understand was just how much space he took up in his world. Stated and unstated. Kuroo was the only constant in the last ten years of his life, and that made him special compared to anyone else.

"I'm happy that you found someone to fire you up. That's enough to satisfy me. And making new friends isn't a bad thing."

There was just one way that he could get through to him.

Kenma stepped forward and took a seat beside his best friend on the bed. True to unruffled form, Kuroo's brave, put-on face didn't waver at the change in their positions. He continued to stare at Kenma as if maintaining eye contact for long enough would make his claims ring truer. As if somehow, Kuroo could make himself believe the lie too, that everything was fine and that he hadn't been crying into his pillows earlier.

Kenma didn't break their gaze either.

"Getting into volleyball into the first place, and wanting to play it are separate to me. I'm glad I had both experiences. That I met both Shouyou and you," he said in a lumbering rhythm, watching the evolution in Kuroo's dark, guarded eyes as he listened. Gradually, as the words sunk in, Kuroo's eyes looked at him differently. The change was both better and worse, because his reaction was honest now, but Kuroo looked scared of what he might say next. Kenma's throat knotted, but he pushed past the unease.

"But neither experience is a requirement for me wanting to be around you. We're not friends because of some sport."

A glimmer of hope sparked in Kuroo's eyes, and that more than completing his sentence relieved Kenma's tension. In that moment, he wanted to continue, and maybe say some of the things he'd almost blurted out earlier, but he settled for something simpler. Kenma was feeling braver, but not that brave. Yet. If the universe had any sympathy, then Kuroo would clue in and he wouldn't have to say the exact words. 

"I don't like change."

Kuroo's breath wheezed out into a half-laugh, half-croak. "Never would have guessed."

"So I don't want us to change. I don't want you to think you're not important to me anymore," Kenma finished.

Beside him, Kuroo's body jolted upright. His spine stiffened, their eye contact was lost, and he seemed to search the air around them for some clue of how to respond. But they were alone now, and that made it harder for him to blow off the encouragement. Kenma watched Kuroo spin his wheels, and waited to see where he would land. Finally, Kuroo sucked in a deep breath, holding onto it before letting it escape. _One. Two. Three. Four_ , Kenma counted in his head. And then again as Kuroo exhaled.

Kuroo had taught him that trick after reading about anxiety in a psychology journal. But that was a long time ago.

It took a few more minutes of them sitting together before Kenma gained any sort of answer.

"I wondered," Kuroo admitted softly. "The way they said it got to me. I thought I was a bigger person than that, but I wasn't. I wondered if maybe that kid was more cut out to be-" He trailed off, staring into his lap.

Kenma's pulse upticked.

"That's stupid, Kuro," he stated, not mincing words. "My parents love you like you're theirs." _Not just them_ , he thought. "And I don't want to lose you."

Kuroo smiled, if he could call it that. The curve of his lips trembled, and Kenma watched as he struggled to keep the expression in place.

"You'll never lose me, unless you want to."

"I just said I didn't," Kenma repeated, feeling his heart pound with newfound anxiety.

He was really going to have to spell this out, wasn't he? Kuroo was too high-maintenance sometimes. But he didn't mind that much. He just didn't want to slack off and let Kuroo slip through his fingers. More than being his best friend, or even someone he loved, Kuroo was necessary to him. Kenma didn't want to know what not having him felt like.

"Do you want to still be around me?" he asked, point blank. 

Kuroo frowned.

"Is this the part where you want me to console you about our years-long friendship? I can remember a time when your hair was black and we were the same height, Kenma. Of course I don't want to stop being friends just because I had a moment of weakness."

Kenma seethed.

He was so frustrating, all the time. Could Kuroo, just once, not beat around the bush? Even if he didn't realize what Kenma was trying to ask, Kuroo had to realize he was asking something important.

"No," Kenma responded. "It's the part where I'm asking if you believe what I'm telling you. That you matter to me. ...And if being 'us' is something you like."

His stomach squirmed with feeling out of his depth, but Kenma felt strangely bold once he blocked out that sensation.

"Kenma?" Kuroo sounded lost.

Turning where he sat, Kenma crawled closer on the bed. His golden eyes homed in on Kuroo's face, and a punch of adrenaline and pure need gave him the rest of his courage.

"Because I might want to change one part about us," Kenma whispered.

And then he kissed him.

When the impulse had presented itself, Kenma had intended to do it quick, make his point, and then retreat. Let Kuroo figure out the rest. But when their mouths met for the first time, his plan evaporated. Emotions he never knew he had swelled within Kenma and he surrendered. The world narrowed to the solidity of Kuroo's body between his hands, and his stunned lips against Kenma's. He kissed Kuroo like he had wanted to do it for years. Probably had.

His desire stirred more when he felt Kuroo respond, gripping his waist and tugging him closer, almost into his lap. Their lips clashed again, and for a split second, Kuroo melted under his assault and he got to taste him. Kenma's pulse raced, and then he heard Kuroo sigh, the sound muffled between them. He reluctantly pulled back to observe Kuroo, who was wearing a million different emotions all at once. 

"Kenma... I'm in love with you."

Kuroo became the watcher then, and though the revelation wasn't that surprising, now, Kenma's stomach flipped over, multiple times. He stared at him for a long moment, struck stupid by the certainty in his best friend's confession.

But then he recovered.

"I love you too, Kuro."

**. . . . .**

What felt like hours later, Kenma found himself sprawled on Kuroo's bed, with Kuroo's head nestled against his chest. It put him at a good reach for more of what they'd done up until that point, and for Kenma to run his fingers through the thick, jet-black monstrosity Kuroo called hair. He felt calm and a little contemplative. And contrary to his usual self, talkative.

"I think there are different definitions of 'everything,'" Kenma said, not worried that Kuroo would miss what he meant. "You're not my only friend anymore, but-"

"But I'm your only boyfriend, right?"

A shit-eating grin stretched Kuroo's lips. His lips that were red from kissing Kenma in between random bursts of tears. Happy ones, or at least, ones Kuroo could let out because he was relieved. The first time had alarmed him, but the subsequent times Kenma developed more patience for, holding Kuroo as he let them run their course. If anything, it was endearing to know that even in the face of a major change in their relationship status, Kuroo was comfortable enough around him to just feel things unfiltered.

Kenma tried not to grimace at the corny line. Kuroo's tear ducts weren't the only part of his body that lacked a filter.

"Yeah."

The weight on his chest shifted, and Kuroo perched above him. He stared downward with a sappy look that Kenma sincerely hoped Kuroo wasn't going to have anytime they went out together from now on. As much as he felt like indulging Kuroo now, the rest of however long their lives ran was too long for him to endure _that_.

"You're too smart sometimes, Kenma. Even when I want to hide things from you, you always figure it out."

Kenma snorted as a response came to mind.

"I'm the brain," he deadpanned.

He almost regretted uttering it when the saccharine expression his boyfriend wore intensified. But Kuroo looked so happy then that Kenma couldn't justify ruining the moment.

"And my heart," Kuroo said, leaning down to kiss him.

So he didn't.

**Author's Note:**

> Why, hello. For various reasons, this is my first published fic in about two years. But my adoration for KuroKen is eternal, and easing my way back into fandom writing with them feels so natural. I’m working on a longer, chaptered story that's a sequel to something I wrote before, but then I re-read the chapter where KuroKen meet as kids. Cue me sobbing, brewing tea, and then somehow spitting out this entire story in one ungodly sitting.
> 
> Hopefully it captures even a small portion of the feels I am drowning in. If you enjoyed, consider leaving a kudos or comment. But please, no later manga spoilers. I’m still catching up. Thank you for reading!


End file.
